


Danger - $ 1 Grilled Cheese

by Glendaa



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Flirty Timmy, Food Truck, M/M, a bit of profanity, grumpy Armie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glendaa/pseuds/Glendaa
Summary: When the world's surliest grilled cheese cart owner (Armie Hammer) meets a demanding client (Timmy Chalamet) fire sparks!





	Danger - $ 1 Grilled Cheese

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Brandy for the idea of Armie running a food truck. 
> 
> If you want to know how that came to be, check this link ;-)  
> https://boingboing.net/2019/06/10/worlds-surliest-grilled-chee.html

“Fuck. Off.”

The boy is looking at me, mouth agape.

I point at the sign over my head. It reads _$1 Grilled Cheese. Don’t ask for avocado toast_.

I think it’s plenty clear, but with youngsters these days you never know. Maybe it’s radiations and we all should start wearing tinfoil caps after all. Or they are just assholes in need of a spanking.

Every. One. Of. Them. Shitty. Teenagers.

Either way it’s ridiculous - the amount of them coming to the truck and asking for something else. Dumb idiots.

Got no time to waste on a menu for pretentious kids. They can fuck off and find options somewhere else. With me, it’s just $1 grilled cheese. White bread, bulk cheese, bulk margarine (yeah, they would like it if it were butter, the little scums, as if butter could sit out all day). Butter my ass, entitled spawns of Satan!

Grilled cheese is just the best - it warms your belly and gives you something to lick from your fingers. Which is fun. And oddly comforting at times.

Ok, I may have not been getting some recently. Fuck me. Or not, I’d prefer it the other way, thank you very much.

The boy is mumbling. What the heck is he saying? Of course, now they can’t even speak properly.

I vaguely think that maybe he’s deaf or something. But then I remember he blushed as I told him to fuck off so… No problem with hearing. Just another asshole.

Although… I look at him more closely - his eyes are quite weird, a strange mix of green and grey and gold, could he be visually impaired? Maybe something’s not totally right and I should bite my tongue before lashing out. I’m almost on the verge of saying ‘sorry’ when…

he asks for other options besides the cheese.

“Fuck. Off.”, I repeat as I flip him the bird (both hands) and turn to grate my beloved chunk of grease. Oh, how I love it! Tasty and comforting and a good listener. Yeah, I may have occasionally talked with my cheese. So what? Archie’s at home now. Fucking food regulations, I wished I had my dog with me.

I would unleash him against this obnoxious dude. He would lick him to death, I’m sure.

The boy scratches the back of his neck, head tilted to the side, looking around as if to find some support.

I chuckle. You are on your own, idiot. People around here know better than to harass me with nonsense.

He tries again to ask me for...

Kale? He wants kale? The fuck is wrong with these kids! This is too much.

I wipe my hands on the apron, open the door and exit the truck.

He sees my expression and takes a step back.

I come face to face with him. He’s taller than I thought (of course from my vantage point everyone seems smaller and I enjoy how my stare makes them even smaller).

“Can you understand me, boy? No hablo hipstero. No entiendo kale. Fuck off!”

He just snorts. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”, he has the audacity to ask me. “Do you know that I could just cross the road and find…”

“Yes, please”.

He seems amused by our interaction. “Actually… I quite like it here”.

If I didn’t know better - how these youngster assholes are the ruin of our society, nothing less, nothing more - I’d think he’s trying to flirt with me.

“Vaya con Dios. Go. Just go.”

He smiles, shakes his head and does that.

\- - - - -

He comes back on Thursday.

This time he asks for kimchi on top of his grilled cheese. He hands me the dollar bill and I - considerate chef that I am - make a big show of pouring a massive amount of non-existent kimchi on his order.

“Cuidado”, I tell him. “Mucho spicy”.

He laughs and eats the grilled cheese and I think he’s kinda pretty when he shuts the fuck up.

\- - - - -

On Friday he demands sriracha.

“When in doubt, add sriracha. It’s my motto”, he says when I ask him about his penchant for hot foods. (Why, oh why, I am talking to him it’s a mistery.) “Here in the US most foods are too bland for my taste”.

This is how I get to know he’s half French, been growing up in both countries.

Why, of course - he must have some snobbish heritage in his lanky body, with that sharp jaw and stupid curls and elegant hands.

Pity that the guillotine is not en vogue nowadays. Entitled boys like him would surely find their way there. Sriracha! On grilled cheese! The blasphemy!

I search for the small pepper shaker I keep under the counter. “Don’t get too used to it”, I tell him.

\- - - - -

Saturday he shows up just as I’m eating with Joe.

We are having a beer as we chat and eat grilled cheese. I try to hide the thermos, but he sees the tomato soup in Joe’s cup.

His lips turn into a smirk, but in his eyes I glimpse something else.

I know what he sees as he’s staring at us. Me and a homeless dude, circa my age, sitting on the pavement.

He probably wonders what’s the story behind this. Same old same old, kid - take a cool guy, make him empty promises, send him to war, kick him in the gutter when he comes back broken.

The boy’s eyes are kind as he slinks away, leaving us alone.

I’m fucked. My grumpy front is fucked.

Maybe I should emigrate.

If my regular 9-5, Mon-Fri customers knew my dirty secret they would start with all sorts of unreasonable requests. Kale requests, even.

~

Later that night, in bed, naked and panting with the boy - well, not boy, man, it’s not his fault if he looks younger, damned French genes - squirming under me I will try to remember how we got here.

How he came back later, told me “I knew you were hot. Now I know you’re kinda sweet too… Wanna hang out?”.

How I asked him if he was even legal and he had rolled his eyes.

How we found ourselves crossing the park then sitting on a bench watching people go by, living their lives, and us just talking talking talking.

How we got hungry and happened upon a tiny Mexican restaurant where he tried to convince me to speak Spanish to the owner. I declined with some effort. We laughed.

Boy’s pretty when he laughs. So very pretty.

How we stumbled out of the restaurant and our fingers entwined, oh so naturally, while walking.

How he hoarsely asked me to take him to my place and when I voiced a strangled ‘are you sure’ he basically climbed me like a tree, pouty lips searching for mine. I had to find the nearest wall and make out for what felt like hours. I just had to.

And now he’s under me, grumbling ‘harder’ as he kicks my butt with the pad of his - not so dainty - feet.

Vantage point, my ass. He’s ordering me around like I knew he would. 

Kids these days.

So demanding.

Bless’em.

 

 


End file.
